T
he day I died was the
perfect New England fall
morning. It was 11 a.m.
on Saturday, October 8,
2011, when I set out on
the 12-mile bike ride home from work
along the Connecticut shoreline. The
sun was brilliant against the blue sky,
and the leaves were starting to change
colors.
It was an exciting time for me. I
loved my job as a program manager at
PeaceJam, an organization that edu-
cates kids about leaders in the peace
movement. At home, my husband of
one year, Sean, and I were trying to
have a baby.
Sean, a mail carrier, was working, so
I’d made plans with a friend for a long
ride later that afternoon. But I would
never get to meet up with her.
As I settled into the right-hand
lane of a busy avenue, a freight truck
turned in my direction from a side
street. He slowed at the corner. We
made eye contact. Then, for reasons
I’ll never know, he accelerated.
There was nothing I could do but
scream. The giant truck knocked
me down onto my left side; my legs
got tangled up with my bike. I heard
snapping and grinding as his front
tires drove over me. I felt my insides
cracking when his back tires did the
same.
People came rushing from all direc-
tions as the truck rumbled away. “Oh
my God!” I heard. “She’s alive.”
I raised my head just enough tosee something bright white and yel-
low protruding from my leg: bone,
tendons, and fatty cells. The skin had
peeled right off most of the lower half
of my body, along with my clothing.
There wasn’t any normal flesh to see.
My abdomen was opened up, and I
was bleeding out.
A woman with blond hair appeared
and sat in the road with me, holding
my head. One man stopped the flee-
ing truck. Another ran over carrying
an emergency heat blanket from a kit
he had in his car. He began screamingSean slept in the hospital and took on
the role of Colleen’s advocate.84 may 2019
courtesycolleen^kelly^ alexanderReader’s Digest